She turned and walked away.
***
It was just before midnight when Jacques barged into the loft, shouting gaily. “Petrine and I scoured the downstairs. And here you are, Francesco. Let’s have a fight. It’s been—I don’t know how many years.” Jacques crossed the wide loft, followed by Petrine, clutching a mahogany case and small cloth bag.
Francesco leaned on his haunches, back against the wall, hands on cheeks, gazing at his canvas. The ladder lay next to him.
Stopping several paces from his brother, Jacques glanced up at a battle painting. “Of all the splendid art in this huge room, I like this one best. And I see you’re almost finished.”
“I’m just in the humor to duel,” said Francesco.
Jacques spoke to Petrine. “My brother has the bold countenance of an eagle, don’t you think?”
“While you, Brother, are a fine line away from ugliness,” Francesco replied.
“Perhaps so,” Jacques said sincerely. “Yet it seems my bright eyes persuade women that I’m handsome. Shall we fight?”
Francesco smiled wryly, stood suddenly, and stripped off his shirt. Jacques did likewise.
“Perform your duties, valet.”
Sweeping his hair from his eyes, Petrine bowed to his master and presented the long rectangular case cradled in his arms.
Francesco clapped Jacques’ bare shoulder and pointed to the numbers carved on the mahogany lid.
“Seventeen forty. Mother gave us these swords fifteen years ago.”
“On my fifteenth birthday,” Jacques said. “They’re mine.”
“When I plant this sword in your chest, you’ll have my weapon and yours—full custody of both.”
Jacques wagged his head.
“What a gift these were. Born common, and yet to possess our own swords! Do you remember how excited we became? We knew it cost Zanetta dearly, and we kissed her hands for hours.”
Petrine stood midway between the two shirtless men while he unfastened the latches on the mahogany case and opened it.
“Your choice, sir?”
Francesco studied the two weapons, walking his fingers across both hilts before selecting one.
“This lancet suits me well,” he said as he withdrew the elegant sword.
The valet submitted the case to Jacques, who removed the remaining weapon.
The smallsword was wicked perfection: its triangular shape gave the sword lightness and durability; its edges tapered to a deadly, needle-like point.
It was said triangular blades produced wounds that were particularly difficult to stitch back together. Most smallswords were not made to have a cutting edge. These two were.
Petrine laid the case on the table next to him, then after digging in his bag, offered leather gloves to each brother.
“No blood, please,” the valet smirked. “After our long day in Paris, I’m in no condition for more work.”
Jacques glared. In the splaying light and shadows, he examined his “sharp,” pinched a bit of crab’s-eye tobacco and snuffed it, then slid his right hand into a thick leather glove. He and Francesco took a dozen steps and stood opposite one another, both standing just outside the range of each other’s deadly steel.
“When we were boys,” Jacques said, “well, I recall that we fought less and less after you began to dabble with paint and palette and I began to dabble with maids and maidenheads.”
Francesco’s sword blade hissed through the damp air.
Jacques rolled his eyes.
“Testing my arm.”
“As I was saying,” Jacques continued, “my passions are different from yours, but you mustn’t think I’m a slave to them. Animum rege, qui, nisi paret, imperat, says Horace. ‘Unless the heart obeys, it commands.’ I never let my passions command. I keep my defenses strong at all times. I allow passion its place, of course, but I remain composed. And that’s how I shall best you.” Jacques pointed his weapon at Francesco as an affront.
Francesco, squaring his body with Jacques, leveled an intimidating stare. “Tonight I will merely wound you.”
The two men remained rock still. From the high walls, wild eyes of painted horses glared at them, dazed and dying soldiers wailed silently, and from his canvas domicile, the stern visage of some long-forgotten saint appeared to comment on the follies of men and swordplay.
The brothers raised their swords and executed an elaborate salute. Both took a tierce en garde, then began circling and countercircling, each attempting to maneuver within striking range.
“O elder one,” Francesco declared, “I would paint your limpid eyes—”
“What did you say?”
“I said I would paint your liquid eyes …”
A flash of anger crossed Jacques’ face. “Beat, attack,” he shouted as he swept aside Francesco’s steel with his blade and made a thrusting assault to the shoulder.
“Parry, riposte.” Francesco blocked the attack, then thrust at Jacques, who narrowly evaded the point.
Petrine slid tighter against the wall where he’d placed the sword case.
“It’s not the sight of blood; it’s just so impossible to scrub it off a floor,” he yelled at the adversaries. He then spoke to himself. “If my master is killed, I’ll be forced to seek another paycheck.”
Francesco, caught off guard, executed a counterparry and dodged another harrowing flurry of steel before regaining his fencing stance. He advanced, thrusting at Jacques’ torso. Jacques gave ground.
For an instant, both stood stock-still, swords apart. Sweat clouded their eyes. Each duelist wiped his brow before edging forward and back in a deft dance. Francesco initiated a number of spirals—doublés—with his blade, forcing Jacques to do likewise.
“Like all men before me, someday I’ll die,” Jacques said. “But before that, I’ll damned well live. What I’ve learned from life is that the only significant difference between an animal and me is that I know more personal pleasures.”
Francesco scowled. “Have you never once searched your heart for—”
“I say that a man who asks himself too many questions is an unhappy man.” Jacques smiled and resumed his en garde. “I live to satisfy my senses. Why should I deny myself pleasures?”
A female voice rang through the large room. “You’d better be playing, you two,” said Dominique, walking through the far door and stopping at a safe distance.
Without replying, the brothers renewed their feverish thrusts.
“Et la,” shouted Francesco. “And there.”
Jacques’ body braced. He stopped and looked down to watch the sword’s point pull away. He barely heard the gasps from Dominique and Petrine while he surveyed his chest. When a languorous course of warm blood seeped from his pectoral, he sank to his knees.
“To possess our own swords,” he muttered.
Petrine and Dominique helped Jacques stand while Francesco relieved him of his weapon, setting it next to his brother’s feet.
“Are you hurt?”
“I merit I am, ass.” Jacques opened his fingers cupped over his heart, and pulpy red blood bloomed from his chest.
Dominique swabbed Jacques’ wound with a handkerchief. “Monsieur, it looks horrible. Horrible. Make your peace. Now.”
“What, what?” Jacques cried with terror.
She turned back to Petrine and Francesco with a grin. “A wound, perhaps. But I would judge it only a prick.” She laughed.
Petrine bobbed his head in agreement. “Won’t be mopping up much blood from that wound.”
Jacques cautiously rechecked his upper body. “Not as wide as a yawning grave, I suppose, but it will do.”
Petrine scurried to the far wall and returned with two shirts, the sword case, cloth bag, and snuffbox.
“I might have died,” Jacques said in a barely audible voice.
“I only wounded you, libertine. Maybe I should have killed you.” As he extended his point, Francesco’s eyes glinted.
Jacques’ belly tingled with
a queer feeling of alarm.
“I once again claim victory,” Francesco said. When Jacques huffed, he added, “Must not let the passions command. Is that not your precept?” He took his shirt from Petrine.
Jacques brimmed with humiliation. He seized his sword, but Francesco drew the hilt of his smallsword to his face and, offering a polite salute, ended the combat. Jacques had no choice but to do the same. Good manners demanded it.
The two brothers, following their personal custom, then faced Dominique and saluted with their weapons.
The woman’s eyes glittered like translucent gems.
Petrine produced a cloth, accepted Francesco’s smallsword, wiped clean the blade, and set it in the case while Francesco headed toward the loft entrance.
“Are you coming to bed soon?” he asked without turning around.
“No,” Jacques and Dominique said in unison. Dominique’s stately manner disappeared when she laughed.
“No,” Jacques repeated. “I’ll write late into the night, as is my habit.”
“I was speaking to Dominique, elder Brother. Good night, then. See you on the morrow. I’ll keep the candle lit, wife.” He left.
Jacques examined his naked chest with intense consternation, paying little heed to Dominique. Petrine, who stood in a patch of moonlight shining through the overhead window, cleared his throat.
Jacques glanced at his valet. “Hang my shirt on that painting. Take my blade. Then place the sword case and gold snuffbox in my room. Wait there.”
Petrine nodded while Jacques’ attention returned to his wound.
“I think you’ve thoroughly mended,” teased Dominique. While Jacques stroked beneath his pectoral with a fingertip of saliva, she continued, “Your stamina is astonishing. You say you write tonight?” A brief smile played upon her lips. “What else do you accomplish late in the night?”
There was no response.
She shrugged her shoulders. “If you write late into the night, it would appear you possess a vigorous intellect,” she tried again.
“I continue working, madame, on the squaring of the cube. Many philosophers, as well as Messieurs Descartes and Newton, have labored ineffectually on this extraordinarily vexing problem, but I intend to find the mathematical solution.”
“You will, without a doubt, be successful with this extraordinarily vexing problem,” Dominique replied with a smile. “You say you live to satisfy your senses, yet your intellectual curiosity seems paramount. Beyond your intellectual endeavors, have you other pursuits?”
Jacques looked up, then stepped close. “None as important as the one who stands before me.”
Dominique drew a sudden breath.
“You may have to teach me,” he said.
Spellbound, Dominique whispered, “Teach you?”
“Yes, teach me.” His words lingered while he brushed away a lock of hair on Dominique’s cheek and leaned forward.
She blushed deeply.
Jacques smiled at his thoughts; unhurriedly, he withdrew from her. “Yes, you may have to teach me the lunge, the fencing move which gave your husband victory.”
A gush of silver moonlight overwhelmed the loft for several moments, enough time for Jacques to catch Dominique’s emerald eyes swell large and bright.
“Besides the squaring of the cube,” he said, turning away, “I’m also expanding my old doctoral thesis: ‘Any being which can be conceived only abstractly can exist only abstractly.’ For devout religionists, it’s a dizzying concern.”
“Your sarcasm puzzles me,” Dominique replied. “You puzzle me. Shall I take it that you are a good member of the Church?”
Jacques picked up his linen shirt and slung it over his shoulder. He began to leave but abruptly spun back.
“Madame, I was not born to be redeemed.”
Then and there, Dominique decided she’d much to teach this man.
- 8 -
WITHIN A DAY, DOMINIQUE FOUND herself sitting on a grassy knoll face-to-face with her houseguest, listening to a tale that some in Europe already knew: Jacques’ escape from I Piombi.
Jacques tented his fingers around his knee and leaned back, resting against a tree. Shining just over his shoulder, the sun was preparing its departure.
“I don’t know why I’m telling this,” he said.
“Because,” she smiled, “I asked you. I’m interested.”
Jacques laughed. “I should’ve been interested in the warning my patron, Senator Bragadin, gave when he advised me to leave Venice.” He looked into the distance. “Three years before that, you see, I’d saved the senator’s life, and I soon convinced him that I possessed profound occult powers. Now, know this: Senator Bragadin is no fool. On the other hand, there isn’t a man in Europe, including me, whose mind is entirely free from some superstition.
“Most men carry many such mindless notions: belief in gnomes, undines, and sylphs of the mystical cabala; a yearning for the philosopher’s stone to cure all disease or to transmute base metal into gold; the conviction that some astrologer can make known a man’s destiny; a faith in magic elixirs, in alchemy, in … the list goes on.
“Like all men, Senator Bragadin wanted to believe in something. This I knew. So my knowledge of the occult helped me cement the role of—more or less—adopted son. It was a position that placed me in the upper chamber of Venetian society with gentlemen’s clothes of silk and sufficient funds for endless gambling and the procurement of the most delicate treasures. Signor Bragadin was generous and tolerant, even while insisting that someday I would pay the price for my perilous behaviors.
“You can understand why it was wholly inconceivable when this evenhanded man came to my room to explain the Inquisitori’s methods and to feverishly pronounce the warning to me: Leave Venice this minute.
“I chose not to listen. The very next morning, my lodgings were invaded by three dozen Venetian policemen. Looking back, I suppose it pleased my pride—that the Secretary of the Three deemed me dangerous. Or so I thought.”
In the telling, Jacques’ voice was soft and simple. He thought he saw in Dominique’s eyes a question: Do you seek to lead me astray? He laughed at his notion and let the spring air warm his lungs.
Dominique bade him continue his story.
“On the first day of my sentence, I remained in good spirits while entering the Doge’s palace and the prison within it: I Piombi, the Leads. Spirited was I—even while I passed the garroting machine, the torture instruments used for tearing out teeth and tongues, and the tool for skull crushing.
“But …,” he paused. “I hadn’t been informed of charges nor been told the length of my sentence. I crouched in that cell—lower than my full height—feeling utter confusion.” Jacques bent his head forward. “All was dark except for one corner of the room that had an undersized window that offered some dingy light. Rotting in a cell, you don’t tire of living, you tire of slowly dying. Deeply frightening, I assure you. It speaks to my fear that I didn’t have a bowel movement for half a month.
“‘Why am I in prison?’ I asked myself again and again. ‘I’m blameless. Guiltless.’ Soon I did not so much wonder why I was there but how I would escape the place.” His eyes glistened.
“How … how did you escape?” Dominique’s lips were parted in astonishment, her eyes unblinking.
WHOMP! Jacques’ hands clapped shut.
Dominique immediately took up a defensive posture, her expression vulnerable but not helpless.
“The slamming of that cell door scared me as badly as I scared you!” exclaimed Jacques.
The pair exchanged a silly laugh.
“Here—in brief—is my escape story: I donned a hat and walked out the front door of the Leads.”
Dominique showed a glimmer of glee that ended with a smile. “Tell me all, or you’ll get no dinner tonight.”
“For your pleasure, madame,” he said, straightening out his legs. “In the beginning, I was put in solitary confinement. Little did I know I would stay there nin
ety-seven days. In unremitting hell. Keeping company only with what thoughts I had. I, who thrive on the pleasures of social discourse, on the sweet joys of food and drink, on the … reduced to a dark, dank cell with rats as big as rabbits.
“By late autumn, I was given cellmates from time to time. The head jailer, Lorenzo, began to feed me decently and soon granted me an armchair. For reading material, I was given The Mystical City of God.” Jacques’ face screwed up into a graceless expression. “Interminably long and catastrophically boring.”
Dominique laughed.
“I knew these privileges of mine were granted only because of the entreaties of my benefactor, Senator Bragadin.” Jacques frowned. “But most everything, it seemed, added to my severe melancholia. Fortunately, better things were to come: eventually I was granted walks—for exercise—in the prison attic. It was there I discovered a piece of polished black marble and an iron spike the length of my forearm. Although at the time I’d no idea what good this might do, I secreted the spike and marble in my armchair. Then one dream-filled night, a plan came to me.
“Quite soon, I began to complain of chest pains and bronchia to Lorenzo. I persuaded the prison doctor that my cell must not be cleaned because the dust might kill me. I kept this up for some time, during which my difficult work started: In those periods when I was absent cellmates, I’d sharpen my iron spike by honing it on the marble, using spit for lubrication. Stiff arms, a huge blister, and a month’s work—that’s what the pointed spike cost. Convincing myself that my jail cell was above the chamber where the Inquistori held court—and my best bet for escape—I began to bore through the cell floor.
“Ever so slowly and painfully, I worked through the wood, the marble terrazzo—using vinegar from my salads to soften the terrazzo—then more wood.”
“They didn’t discover the hole you were making?” asked Dominique.
Jacques offered a sly smile. “My cell was not entered once, not cleaned a single time—for as you know, the dust would most certainly harm their prisoner.”
Dominique glanced away, rolling her eyes.
Secrets of Casanova Page 5